In psychology, there’s a thing called confirmation bias, and it’s something we’re all guilty of doing. The idea goes that once you believe something, you’ll seek out and accept evidence that reinforces that belief, and vehemently reject evidence that challenges it, no matter how solid.

Typically, you’d apply this to stuff like climate change, or religion, or politics. And while both you and I undoubtedly do exactly this, there’s one idea that I’ve applied it to all my life. A concept that I’ve constantly looked to reinforce. One thought that has been in my head all my life, and that I’m only just now beginning to understand is the starting gun for everything I’ve spent the past three months writing about.

It laid the groundwork. It introduced the patterns of fear now firmly resident in my head. It dug out the grooves for the river of shit to flow through.

That thought is this: I mean nothing to anyone.

For years, I’ve been convinced of this. More than convinced – I feel it all the way to my core. It is the concept upon which all my human interactions take place, it is the one constant I’ve had in my head for as long as I can remember.

After arriving back in my hometown in a bid to deal with anxiety, I was talking with a friend. She asked how I was settling in, and I said it was going okay, but I hadn’t really heard from anyone. Then she said “oh, that’s because everyone’s forgotten that you came back.”

“Of course they fucking have,” I said to myself. “Because my existence is fucking meaningless to fucking everyone.”

In the good old days, I’d have allowed this to just rattle in my head for days, weeks, or even months without any sort of check. I accepted it as normal and how I should be thinking about myself. Now, at the very least, I have a name for it: social anxiety.

The stereotypical sufferer of social anxiety is someone who shies away from social contact, who becomes deeply uncomfortable in social situations, and who can agonise over the slightest interaction for an eternity.

I originally felt this wasn’t me. I often find myself dwelling on social interactions and generally struggle and overanalyse in group settings. Yet, on the surface, I’m a sociable, outgoing person who speaks his mind. I do public speaking, generally up for making a fool of myself, and embarrassment less of a concern, more a good old friend. I don’t fear others, I’ve never been afraid to be myself, and I – for the most part – don’t duck out of social situations.

Of course you don’t have social anxiety, I told myself. It’s just that everyone just hates you.

Oh.

Wait.

Shit.

For years, I have projected the idea that I don’t give a fuck about other people and their tedious opinions of me. That I’m strong enough to do everything by myself. That I don’t need anyone in my life.

But it’s a lie. A damned lie. A damned lie I sold to everyone so I could convince the biggest sucker of all: myself.

The truth is that I perceive my life as worthless in the eyes of others. I’ve done it my whole damn life. I still believe it to be true. I believe it so completely that I don’t even get typical anxiety about it – it’s a certainty I can do nothing about. There’s no fear, no attacks – just a weary ingrained acceptance that I am universally despised.

This is where confirmation bias comes in. I struggle to recall good memories with friends, but vividly recall every time I’ve been let down. I assume that whenever people speak of me, they speak negatively, if they even think to discuss me at all. I forget compliments in an instant, but can remember insults and putdowns from decades ago.

I am convinced I am nothing. By searching tirelessly to find evidence to reinforce that narrative and rejecting anything to the contrary, I have persuaded myself that there’s nothing that can be done about it. Worst of all, I have allowed a pervasive sense of self-hatred to fester deep within me – one that fuels depression, self-loathing, and a pattern of self-destruction that’d make Hunter S. Thompson wince.

This has been a problem from the moment I was born. I was raised as a Catholic, and thus have been told from birth that there was something wrong with me. I’ve had the concept that I’m a sinner, that I’m evil, that I’m worth nothing hammered into me from my first breath.

Things didn’t improve as I aged.

Children are evil little shitbags. Barely more sentient than monkeys and far less socially sensitive, these disease incubating spreaders of hatred make Hitler look like the goddamn posterboy for inclusiveness. And much like the Nazis, children hate differences in people – they will burn at the stake anyone with even the slightest deviance from what is considered normal.

Being tall, smart, and generally capable of independent thought, I was doomed from the start. It didn’t help being raised as a Catholic either – people spurned me, and my faith told me I was at fault. For added salt, my mother delighted in embarrassing me all the way through school, providing my school chums with bucket loads of ammunition.

Despite that, I did represent a challenge. You couldn’t easily beat me up, and you couldn’t outsmart me. So instead, people just insulted and isolated me.

I’ve always hated football, but through fear of yet further social exclusion, I was forced to play at school. Being tall and surprisingly flexible for someone of my height, I became quite good at the ol’ goalkeeper game. I’ll admit – I even enjoyed it. None of this mattered though – no matter how hard I tried, I was still shit in the eyes of my peers.

There was this one game where we won 5-0. While I can’t speak for the five goals scored by my team, I was instrumental in ensuring we didn’t concede a single one.

At the end of the game, our PE teacher gathered everyone round. In a bid to boost my confidence, he asked everyone who they thought was the better goalie, a well-liked chap called Ben who let five goals in, or myself with my flawless performance.

Everyone said Ben.

This was essentially the story of my formative years. All the way through school, I felt alone and like an outsider, and seemingly every opportunity to remind me of this was expertly seized upon. Family, friends, faith – there was little in life growing up that didn’t rape me of my self-esteem.

The deepest wounds came when friends at my middle school pitched in. Amongst other fun and games, they’d purposely go out of their way to invite me places just to run away. Sometimes I’d give chase, sometimes I’d just break down and cry. It wasn’t until late in my school life that I began to make friends that didn’t seem hell bent on trying to fuck me over.

This has stayed with me. Twenty years later, I still expect people to abandon me. If people are late to meet me, I’ll assume they aren’t coming. If someone doesn’t text me back, I take it like a goddamn dagger to the heart. Even something as simple as someone needing to pop to the shop quickly while we’re in the pub, I’ll think they are using it as an excuse to leg it.

I expect people to fuck me over. I expect no one to be there when I need them. I expect nothing from people because that’s what I expect them to think of me.

Social anxiety, without me even realising, has shaped so much of my personality.

I consider myself a non-conformist. I dismiss commonly held beliefs simply because most people believe them. I avoid groups and clubs because I feel that I’m not wanted anywhere. I feel no solace in being a part of something. I don’t subscribe to groupthink, or feel the pull of group mentality. I feel alone in a crowd. Hell, I feel alone no matter where I am.

More than that, I feel I should be alone. That it is my destiny. That I should just accept it and stop interfering with everyone else’s life.

Of course, the fun doesn’t just stop at friends and acquaintances. Unsurprisingly, thinking everyone hates you has made relationships somewhat tricky.

Shortly after one relationship had crashed and burned, I took my Nan out for lunch. As I was bringing her up to speed, she noted that I was talking about an entirely different woman from the last time I had seen her. She offhandedly remarked that I was the sort of person who’d always be alone.

She meant to jab at my chronic womanising. What she hit instead was the anxiety. My dear old sweet Nan, mercilessly throwing me to the wolves of my deepest insecurities.

The first step – actually talking to someone you’re attracted to – is something I’m sure we’re all familiar with. It doesn’t help when your so-called confidence is a raging misanthropic pessimist that’s chucking empty bottles of whiskey at you and calling you a universally despised cunt before you’ve even made eye contact.

Worse is admitting feelings. The amount of women I’ve been absolutely crazy about but unable to own up to my feelings is staggering. My self-worth is a giant water balloon – seemingly impressive but explodes under the slightest pressure (and yes – you can steal that analogy for your premature ejaculation blog). If a woman who I’m mad about elects to spend some time with me, I’ll just assume that the universe is just having a bad day and it’s probably worth just keeping my mouth shut until the shitstorm continues.

On occasion, there’s been women who not only lead me to water, but have the patience to repeatedly slam my slack-jawed face into it until I realise what’s going on. My last girlfriend once told me I didn’t know how to be loved, and she was right. I’ve loved many women, yet when it comes to thinking that any of that was reciprocated, I believe one or two of them. Even then, I constantly wrestle with it, and ultimately lose the fight.

Someone loving me does not fit into the narrative of self-hatred I spin for myself. When you adamantly believe that everyone hates you and the world wants you to be alone, love is the second hardest concept in the world to accept.

The hardest? That I’m wrong.

That I’ve been wrong all along. That I’ve let a small handful of bad experiences shape my connections with others for 31 years. That I’ve let the Catholic bullshit win, and that my whip of self-flagellation is my self-hatred. That my self-hatred isn’t even me, but is the manifestation of all the negativity utter bastards have shown me. That I don’t have to listen to that voice anymore. That by exposing it, by understanding it, and by shoving it out in front of all of you that it will wither and die. That I don’t have to live like this, that I don’t have to think like this, that I can change how I treat myself.

That I actually have value. That people actually do care. That my mind is worth saving from the ravages of this terrible affliction after all.

This has been the hardest post so far for me to write – hence why it took an extra week to get out. The idea behind all this has been knocking around for a year, but this is the first time I’ve truly admitted this feeling to anyone and how badly it has sucked me in, including myself. I feel raw. I feel like a fool. I feel like I need to apologise to everyone I know, especially myself. I feel like I’ll need some time to really explore the whole concept, how it has affected me, and how to overcome it.

I haven’t got any real idea how people actually feel about me – does anyone? But what I do know is that I have friends. I have a life. I don’t need to be dominated by my past. I can find a new understanding of myself and my place in the world, and find positive evidence to back it up.

At the very least, I don’t have to hate myself.

—-

I started CBT a couple of weeks ago, and one of the things that came out of it is that I might not be as over depression as I’d been leading myself to believe. This latest post confirms it – I can see how both anxiety and depression have been a tag team here. So, next week, I’ll take a break from anxiety to discuss its mopey cousin.

As always, if you’ve taken anything from this blog, please like, share, and comment. Not only does it help keep me writing, but exposes my work to others suffering through the same stuff I’ve been through.